Smoke and Rain
by NotQuiteHumanAnymore
Summary: Grantaire isn't hiding, and Enjolras isn't worried, you're just being silly, suggesting something like that. T for mentions of violence, I suppose. Better safe than sorry. e/R
1. Cliché and Fine With It

**A/N: I wrote this while on writers block for another story I'm doing; and I wrote it because it just wouldn't leave me alone until I did.**

**All mistakes are my own, because I didn't have someone beta this, and I may very well have missed something. It's happened before, so if you catch anything, please tell me, and I'll fix it.**

If you asked him about it, he'd swear up and down that he wasn't hiding, he had no reason to hide, and that you were being ridiculous. But he'd be lying, of course. He would have been smoking to provide an excuse for when someone inevitably found him, but at the moment, he felt that smoking in the rain was just slightly too cliché, even for him. So, for now, he was just not-hiding against the wall of Courf's apartment, trying to decide whether or not to go inside. His hands were shaking, and he was beginning to think a cliché would be worth the calming effects of the cigarette.

He heard footsteps slapping against the pavement, hurrying to get out of the rain, and he slunk further into the shadows of the building. He was fervently hoping, praying to anyone or anything that was listening that the footsteps wouldn't slow, wouldn't stop enough to notice him, but they did both. And then that voice, that achingly familiar voice called out to him.

"Grantaire?" And why did he have to say his name like that? All light and confused. Grantaire decided that being cliché was now the least of his worries. He pulled a cigarette out and lit it, keeping his head down as his trembling fingers brought the cigarette to his lips. The footsteps were approaching him now, and it was barely moments before Enjolras stood in front of him. Grantaire licked his lips and took another pull off his cigarette before answering. Even then,

"Apollo," was all he could manage.

"Why are you lurking in front of Courfeyrac's building?"

"'M not lurking," he brandished the cigarette, "I'm _smoking_, Apollo. You know how Courf is about smoking." He was trying to keep the mood light and Enjolras unaware, but the change, when it came, was tangible. Enjolras put his bag down and stepped closer to Grantaire. Enjolras reached out to him and Grantaire flinched, Enjolras settled for putting his hand on Grantaire's shoulder.

"R, look at me." Grantaire stood resolutely at the ground. "Grantaire, _please_." Just like in _The Princess Bride_ (which Bossuet had made Grantaire watch far too many times) it was the please that did it. Grantaire raised his eyes so that he was looking at Enjolras' nose, but he refused to look any further. He was afraid of what he'd see in Enjolras' perfect blue eyes.

Disappointment, surely.

Anger, most likely.

Revulsion? Almost certainly. Grantaire wasn't entirely sure what Enjolras was seeing, as he hadn't had a chance to get to a mirror yet, but he knew there was blood, and at least one of his eyes was blackened. Enjolras' nostrils flared and Grantaire winced. He could feel the white hot anger rolling off of the other man in waves, and he ducked his head again. He knew from personal experience that one could only manage to look at something terrible for so long.

Grantaire knew he wasn't good looking on one of his best days, so he could only imagine how horrible he looked now.

He trained his eyes on the ground, watching an ant crawl over his shoelaces, trying to will Enjolras away so that he didn't have to face the disappointment that he knew was coming. He was focused so intently on the ant that he only subconsciously realized that Enjolras had moved closer until his fingers were wrapped around Grantaire's wrist. He hoped that Enjolras didn't notice how his pulse jumped into overdrive at his touch.

"What happened?" he asked quietly and something in his voice made Grantaire start to tremble again. But it wasn't anger that had Enjolras shaking as well; it was despair. Grantaire felt the other man shaking and finally looked into his eyes.

"Sometimes words just don't cut it, Apollo. That's when things tend to get more on the bloody side."

"It looks really painful." Grantaire tried for a smile.

"You should see the other guys."

"There was more than one?"

"If it'd just been the one, I'd have gotten away with hardly a scratch, Apollo. Give me some credit." Silence followed and Grantaire used it to toss the cigarette butt into the bin by the door. At this point, not even the nicotine could calm him down.

"You have to stop this, R!" Enjolras said quickly, as if it were a secret that he just couldn't bear to keep.

"What, smoking? I know you're against it, but—"

"No, I mean you have to stop putting yourself in positions where you can be…" _Hurt_?_ Killed_? Enjolras wasn't sure which he meant, but Grantaire seemed to understand. He bristled, suddenly defensive.

"And why not?"

"Because no cause, no matter how noble is worth your life!"

"This from the man who got caught in a riot last month after a rally turned sour! Or protested so long he nearly got hypothermia!"

"That's—"

"Different?"

"Yes!"

"How?" Grantaire challenged, and, for once, his Apollo was out of words. "Did it occur to you that maybe there _was_ no cause? That I picked this fight just to fight, Enjolras?"

"Yes, of course it did, but that's not who you are, Grantaire!"

"And how would you know?" He sneered.

"Because—" Enjolras stopped and restarted, "because no matter how much you pretend not to believe, not to care, I know you do. You see so much more than the rest of us because you've _been_ there. And it kills you, it hurts so much, and it's easier not to see it, so you pretend that you don't see it, that you don't care. You hide behind jokes and alcohol and god knows what else, but every now and again, you slip and we can see how much you really feel, and it hurts, Grantaire." And because he couldn't figure out how Enjolras knew any of that, how his Apollo could see any of that side of him, he latched onto the one thing that was digging a knife into his ribs. "It hurts when I see how much that hurts you, and I can't stand it anymore, Grantaire!" Grantaire really wished that Enjolras would stop saying his name like that.

"What?" Was all that came out of his mouth when Enjolras had left him space to speak.

"Are you serious?" Enjolras looked at him, exasperated now. "Look, I know that you can barely tolerate me on the best of days," Grantaire just shook his head because of how inherently _wrong_ that sentence was, "but for crying out loud, I didn't think you were _blind_!"

"What?"

"Grantaire!" Enjolras whined, as if he couldn't believe that Grantaire still hadn't understood what Enjolras was saying, which was probably exactly what was happening. "I fall asleep every night terrified that I'm going to wake up, and you aren't. That I'm going to have to pretend to be fine while you're in a hospital, in a coma, or—" he choked on the last word. Grantaire wasn't sure when it had happened but Enjolras twined their fingers together and was now holding onto Grantaire's hand as though his life depended on it. When Grantaire looked up at him, he realized that Enjolras was staring at the ground, as if he was afraid to see Grantaire's face. "And I'm asking you to stop putting yourself in harm's way because, well, because! Damn it! This shouldn't be this difficult!" He took a steadying breath that did nothing to help him at all. "R, I love you." He brought his desperate eyes up to Grantaire's. "I have for the longest time now, and it's been killing me to pretend to just feel friendship for you because I know you don't feel the same way and you can barely stand to be in the same room as me—"

Well, Grantaire was having none of that. He put his free hand behind Enjolras' neck and Enjolras was stopped mid-tirade by Grantaire's mouth colliding with his own.

Their first kiss was sloppy, ungraceful, and, frankly, somewhat desperate. When Grantaire pulled back, Enjolras' eyes were as wide as saucers. "And you call _me_ blind." Grantaire muttered. Enjolras' cheeks heated and damn if he wasn't gorgeous when he blushed. Grantaire grinned and pulled him back in for a second, decidedly gentler and less desperate, kiss.

Or, you know, the second one that they both remembered.

Technically, it was their third.

**A/N: I have a part two in the works, because after that ending, even I had to know where their first kiss was. Please R&R, because that would be very nice of you and I would be eternally grateful.**


	2. What They Forgot

**A/N: Okay, so I received information that this was slightly confusing, this is E and R's first kiss. This takes place before the other one. Sorry for the confusion.**

Enjolras didn't drink, he had complete and utter control over that portion of his life, and he very much wanted to keep it that way, so when Courfeyrac handed him a cup full of an undetermined liquid, he knew he was just going to put it down somewhere and watch the proceedings from a corner. What he didn't count on, however, was Grantaire. He'd known Grantaire would be there, of course, so what he _really_ hadn't counted on was Musichetta's friend—Christine, wasn't it?—getting far too close to Grantaire for anyone to be comfortable, Grantaire, however was in the midst of a tirade, and didn't notice her slowly inching closer.

So Enjolras downed the contents of the plastic cup and tossed it in one of the trash cans strategically placed around the apartment. As the night progressed, he hid out on the fire escape—escape here being an extremely accurate word, no matter what he said—in order to get away from the sight of Christine making doe eyes at Grantaire, and the unfamiliar ache that seemed to accompany that. Even out here, though it seemed he couldn't escape from Grantaire, whose voice somehow managed to rise above the music and the other people in order to plague him. He swirled around the remains of his third—fourth?—drink, and decided that this had all been a truly terrible idea. He sighed and sat in the corner of the fire escape, and put the nearly-empty plastic cup in between his feet. He then decided to evaluate his place in the universe. He was making himself miserable, and he knew it, but he didn't quite know how to stop that. So, he didn't.

After a few minutes of staring alternately at the alley behind Courfeyrac's building and the smog-filled sky above it, the window leading out to where he sat opened again.

"Oh," came Grantaire's voice, "um," Enjolras looked at him, as he blustered and attempted to complete his sentence. He gestured to the empty space beside Enjolras. "Is this seat taken?"

Enjolras shook his head, ignoring the way his chest constricted when Grantaire sat down beside him.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Grantaire asked, as the silence between them grew all-consuming. Enjolras moved his cup to his side and turned to face Grantaire with his legs crossed and his elbows resting on his knees.

"Do you ever wonder if it's worth it? Fighting, I mean." Grantaire continued to look confused. "Think about it, no matter what we do or say, humans will always find reasons to hate each other, and ways to show it. There will always be crime, no matter how hard we try to stop it, and no matter how much we hate it, there will always, _without fail_, be pretentious fucks who think they're the center of the universe. There are just days when I wonder… even when if we fight it, and manage to _win_, will it matter in the long run? Or is _this_," he gestured outward, to the outline of downtown, "the basic nature of humanity? To be assholes who put each other down to climb an imaginary social ladder?"

Grantaire nodded, "a year ago, I would've agreed with every last thing you said, and added to your little rant. But, since I've met you all, I've seen some pretty amazing things happen. You raised money for a charity by _shouting_, Enjolras, you make people care. Everyone here is capable of bringing out the best in humanity. And, fuck yeah, there's still a hella long way to go, but if I could bet on one person, in history, who could change the world for the better, it'd be you, Apollo."

"Even up against someone like Ghandi?"

"Ghandi wouldn't stand a chance." R stiffened as Enjolras smiled at him, but managed a wary smile back, almost like he couldn't believe Enjolras was smiling at _him_. Before Enjolras could properly think about what he was doing, he'd pushed himself to his knees and leaned closer to Grantaire. Enjolras took a moment to memorize the curve of Grantaire's mouth before he leaned down to kiss him.

Kissing Grantaire was nothing like he thought it would be, and he realized now that he had thought about it. Extensively at times and, oh, it was so much better in real life. Especially now that R was kissing him back, was kissing Enjolras like he'd planned it, and his hands couldn't seem to decide between tangling themselves in Enjolras' hair and wrapping around his neck. Enjolras slid his tongue across Grantaire's bottom lip and R responded by taking Enjolras' and biting it gently. When Enjolras pulled away, it was purely because he had no more air in his lungs and he didn't much fancy passing out in the middle of their first kiss.

"Grantaire?" Came a decidedly feminine voice, and reality came crashing around Enjolras' ears. Enjolras stiffened and Grantaire could feel him retreating, pulling back into his shell, where no emotions would surface for days, but he'd end up feeding the homeless by working triple overtime at a soup kitchen until he passed out on his and Combeferre's couch from overexertion, where he'd stay for the next two days because 'Ferre wouldn't let him move until he was sure Enjolras wasn't going to pass out by walking up the stairs, and _no_! Grantaire just wanted to go back to thirty seconds ago, when he'd been almost certain that Enjolras reciprocated his feelings, but then Enjolras pulled away and seemed to shrink into his corner of the fire escape.

"You should go." He croaked. "People are waiting for you." And Grantaire knew that there was no going back, and if he drank to forget, if he woke up the next morning with a woman he hardly knew and a pounding in his head, and the world weighing slightly more heavily on his chest, for reasons he couldn't remember, who would be surprised?

And if Enjolras went home and woke up the next morning thinking, 'God, what happened last night?' And, 'what does Courf _put_ in those drinks of his?' (Because if Enjolras is anything, it's a truly terrible drunk,) but with a new, inexplicable, understanding of his feelings for Grantaire, who'd be surprised at that, either?


End file.
